


Once More, With Feeling

by Rotpeach



Category: Devil May Cry
Genre: Belligerent Sexual Tension, Fighting Kink, Flirting, Minor Violence, Multiple Orgasms, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-26
Updated: 2019-03-26
Packaged: 2019-12-18 11:25:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,842
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18248885
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rotpeach/pseuds/Rotpeach
Summary: After months of training to become certified to hunt demons, you've learned just about everything Dante has to teach you. For your final exam, you just have to beat him in a fight. How hard can it possibly be?Sequel to A Gun Called Lover.





	Once More, With Feeling

**Author's Note:**

> hi my name is rotpeach and my special skill is getting carried away.
> 
> so i set out to write the inevitable conclusion to a gun called lover and this is what happened. we still get there, it just takes a little longer! i don't really think dante would be the kind of person who can't "spit it out," but i really enjoyed this setup so there's some added circumstances to make it feel a little more authentic. my self-indulgent headcanon is that demons who are interested in each other fight as the final stage of courtship, which isn't stated explicitly here but definitely influenced how things went.
> 
> it doesn't matter in the least but this is set a little before 5, since nero still has his devil bringer lol please enjoy!

Steel kisses steel and the sound rings out sharp and clear like a bell breaking. Dante’s eyes meet yours and there’s a moment of stillness, the winds you built behind your movement suddenly rushing past. You both stand frozen, locked in this dance of violence and you can feel the tension in you coiled tight and explosive.

Rebellion dwarfs your blade and they meet like a freighter colliding with a rowboat. Weeks ago, you would’ve stumbled, would’ve ended up sprawled on the floor by now. The shock would’ve traveled from your wrist up to your shoulder and something would’ve dislocated, might’ve even snapped like a twig. But you’re stronger now, better at this, more confident. Maybe you’re winded and panting, maybe beads of sweat dot your brow and trickle down the back of your neck while Dante looks as unflappable as chiseled stone, but you can stand here and stare him down now. You can put all of your weight into your forward motion so you aren’t knocked back even when he pushes against you, even when he scrapes Rebellion’s battle-worn edge against your weapon and they blush with friction, sparks stinging your fingers.

This is the part where he’d praise you if you were just sparring. This is where he’d give you a wry little smile, a laugh, a quietly satisfied, “Nice work, kid,” and it would mean the world to you. But that isn’t what he does now. This is not a friendly spar and Dante’s barely smiling. He pushes, pushes, _pushes_ against you and the steel is screaming and you _know_ the way a hunter knows when the tide of battle turns that you have half a second to shift your weight and move before this ends disastrously.

So you do, and he knows before it happens. He follows your movement with his eyes as you let his momentum give you the space you need to roll out of the way. And he knows you’ll try to get behind him, and he knows that you’ll try to fake him out with a quick step to the right, then the left, another half-step to get into position. He knows you’ll dance out of the way of Rebellion, little more than flitting lines of silver to your human eyes, and leap over a sweeping kick trying to knock you off balance. He knows you’ll go for his throat because that’s what he taught you, hands curled around the gnarled handle of an old sword he’s letting you borrow. His free hand clamps down on your wrist with your blade tickling his neck and you try to twist his arm only so he’s distracted, only so he doesn’t see your knee coming for his stomach.

But he does, and he’s disappointed that you thought he wouldn’t. Rebellion twirls in his hand like it weighs nothing and the starburst of steel at the end of its handle slams into your thigh. You’re crumpling before he’s even done with you. Your back slams into a wall that wasn’t there a second ago, halfway across the room last you checked, and Dante’s hand is on your throat where it always seems to find itself at the end of this. His thumb presses down on your windpipe and cuts off your air for only a second in the gentlest reminder that if he were anything else, if his thumb had a claw or if his hand were the open maw of a demon, you would be dead right now.

And then he lets go. You’re on your knees wheezing with a sore leg and a bruised ego, but nothing hurts as bad as the pain in your chest when he just leaves you there. Doesn’t even offer a hand to help you up. Doesn’t say a word. You’re angry and humiliated and you try not to cry but it’s one of the worse fights you’ve had lately, too many stupid mistakes.

When you finally pick yourself up and wander back out into the wide open front office of Devil May Cry, there’s a freshly delivered pizza waiting on an old, bullet hole-ridden table for you. A gesture of mercy, or maybe an apology. It’s become part of the routine now. You tug a slice free and drop onto the couch beside Dante, who was nice enough to only eat half without you.

“So,” he says, and you feel his eyes burning into your side, “you come in half-asleep today or what? That was pretty rough.”

“I know,” you mutter. “I don’t wanna hear it, okay? I know it was bad. I was too obvious, didn’t move fast enough. That first dodge was really clumsy. I’m getting impatient, I guess.” He’s still staring while you eat and it’s making you self-conscious. You feel like you ran a marathon and got hit by a train at the end of it, sore all over, pulse thumping, sweat soaking your shirt and making your hair stick to your face, while Dante looks like as unruffled as always.

“Impatient’s not a good thing to be with a demon,” he says, and his tone makes you feel distinctly that you’re getting lectured. “We’ve been over this. You get reckless when you feel cornered and start making desperate moves. You gotta keep your cool. A regular demon’s not gonna let you walk away if you slip up like that.”

“I _know.”_

“Or are you just saying you do? Because this makes, huh, I dunno,” he pauses, counting on his fingers as if he doesn’t know off the top of his head, giving you an extra second to sulk in your loss, “seven times. Doesn’t it? You’re lucky I’m letting you take your final exam until you pass.” You eat your pizza in bitter silence. You’re acutely aware of Dante’s arm shifting on the back of the couch behind you, like he’s thinking of draping it over your shoulder, but he never does.

“Hey, Dante?” His name always comes out a little shaky, like you don’t feel you’ve earned the right to say it so casually. You get an absent, “hn?” in response, muffled through a mouthful of crust and cheese. “Did I ever...I mean, you’re not holding something against me, right?”

Mild surprise flickers across his features for just a moment before he smooths it away into his usual nonchalance. “Kid, if I ever seem a little harsh, it’s because I don’t want you going out in the field without a clue.”

You bristle at the nickname. “Not what I meant.”

“What’d you mean, then?”

“It’s not—I mean, it’s. I just...” And you falter, like always. You break eye contact and look at the floor, licking the last of the tomato sauce from your fingers. Dante’s watching, his eyes are on your tongue and there’s that lingering tension that’s plagued all of your conversations from day one, that heat, that pressure, a gravitational pull trying to smash you together. There are a hundred things you want to say but what comes out is a meek, “Look, it’s nothing.”

His touch is warm and friendly, a reassuring pat on the back, and it’s gone before it overstays its welcome long enough to be interpreted as anything but strictly platonic. “You’re not gonna hurt my feelings. Let me know if I ever do something that crosses the line,” he says. It’s an easy out, an opportunity to nod and change the subject and get on with your lives. It doesn’t clear the air. It doesn’t smother the fire that ignites on your skin whenever you’re close like this. There’s half a pizza left on the table and neither of you have given it a second look since you sat down.

“What if I wanted that, though?” you mutter. You steal a glance at him out of the corner of your eye and he’s doing the same to you, not smiling, not quite frowning. He regards you with a look of quiet appraisal like you’re about to have another mock-battle again, sizing you up and mentally grading your performance.

“Wanted what?” Dante asks. It sounds like a challenge. You’re already backing down, berating yourself for saying something so impulsive. “Kid,” he says, his voice dipping lower and his head tilting, trying to meet your eyes, “what do you want?”

 _You,_ the word crawls up your throat, balances on the tip of your tongue and is caught just behind your teeth. You swallow hard. Dante’s leaning in and you’re closer than you were a second ago, his fingertips grazing your shoulder featherlight and teasing. You feel his breath on your lips and all you see is the bright blue of his eyes. Something could happen right now if you weren’t already doubting yourself, shrinking back timidly. Dante sees you retreating and something like disappointment flickers through his eyes. You’re so _tired_ of all the things you aren’t saying to each other, all the distance, all the pretending.

So today, you make a promise. To him and to yourself. “There’s something we have to talk about,” you say. “We’re going to have that conversation when I win.”

Dante flashes a smile and your whole body warms at the heat and the admiration you see welling up in his eyes. “Sure thing, kid,” he says, and the deal is sealed. No backing out now. You feel a surge of panic at what you’ve just set yourself up for, but you need to do this if you’re ever going to overcome your timidity. The day you beat Dante is the day you’re certified to hunt demons, and now, it’s also the day you speak your mind and tell him you want him. For now, though, you allow yourself a quick retreat, thanking him for the pizza as you get yourself together and head for the door.

Dante tells you to take care, another piece of pizza in one hand, magazine in the other, leaning back as the perfect picture of nonchalance on the couch. But you look back one last time as you’re leaving and catch him peering over the page. The look in his narrowed eyes—sharp, smoldering, laser-focused—freezes you where you stand until the door slams shut between you. You clutch your chest and feel your heart racing.

*

The next one’s better. It’s quicker, yeah, and you end up flat on the ground with your ears ringing at the impact, but Dante’s breathing isn’t perfectly even. He keeps you under him with a hand around your throat, but the other one rises to his face and wipes at the trickle of blood dribbling out of a thin cut on his cheek. He looks at his slick, red fingers in surprise and lets out an impressed, “Huh.” You look a thousand times worse but you feel like a million bucks.

*

Trish leans over and asks, “So when do you move in?” and you’re sure you must’ve misheard her with all the noise.

It’s a rare day that the entire extended roster of Devil May Cry-affiliated hunters are under one roof, but every now and then, the stars align. Appliances in the shop have a short life expectancy—a combination of old, faulty wiring, periodic demon attacks on the office and Dante’s insistence that you can fix most things by smacking them with a sword a few times—so the squat little TV perched on the table sounds more like gargled static than whatever sitcom Nero’s trying to watch. The dented jukebox against the wall keeps skipping and playing the same thirty seconds of the same punk rock song. Lady’s having an increasingly heated conversation with Dante about whether or not he can pay her back this month. Sometimes the lights flicker, like the building can’t take the strain of everybody under one roof, and you all collectively hold your breath with your gazes at the ceiling until it stabilizes.

But, right, Trish asked you something. You’re looking at her as her stare grows expectant and try to understand where this is coming from. “What do you mean, move in?” you echo.

“It’s tradition,” she says simply, smiling at your visible confusion. “I’m kidding. It’s mostly practical. Although, come to think of it,” she glances at Nero slouched half-asleep on the far end of the couch and Lady following an exasperated Dante into the kitchen, “I bet we all stayed here for a little while.”

You glance at the staircase on the other side of Dante’s desk. “Really?”

“Sure. You’ll have to make a name for yourself before you start getting any job offers on your own. It’s easier to live on-site in the meantime while you’re just picking up Dante’s scraps.”

(You got really, really close once. Rushed him from the start, didn’t give him room to breathe, had him on the defensive a full five minutes. And you were surprised because he’d taught you this, too, told you there was a fine line between reckless and clever and you had to walk it sometimes, had to face your fears and get right in the face of a demon if it seemed like it didn’t want you there.

You were sharing breath the whole fight, nose to nose on the off-beats before he took a step back and you surged forward. His back hit the wall and you were ready, you were on him, you sliced across his hand when he brought it up to protect himself because he’d told you to fight like you meant it. You winced, hesitated, when his blood spattered across your cheek and it was barely a second, barely half a second, but that’s all it took.

Dante rolled you both and you were the one pinned, his whole weight crushing you against the wall. You’d actually gotten him to break a sweat and as you felt him panting against your ear, laughing huskily like he couldn’t believe you’d gotten this far, you felt it. He was draped heavily across your back and his pelvis was pressed against you and he was _hard._ And something must’ve happened, something you lost track of in the shuffle—maybe you went rigid, got scared, or maybe you even made a noise, something high-pitched and embarrassing, maybe _both_ —and then he dropped you. You winced at the bruises forming on your knees and when you looked back, he was halfway across the room and was turned away from you.

“Nice try today,” he said casually, like he didn’t have a massive erection. You nodded numbly, realized he couldn’t see you, and muttered an affirmative sound. He left first while you were still gathering your thoughts and you were glad, because it took you a while to process everything. There was no pizza when you left the back room and the water was running upstairs. You just left. Next time, you didn’t bring it up but there was an unspoken understanding that something had changed.)

You ask Trish, “What’s it like, living here?”

The yelling from the kitchen gets a little louder when Dante comes back out, a leftover slice of pepperoni on a grease-covered paper plate in hand. The argument’s turned to playful bickering and the two of them are staring each other down on opposite sides of the desk. Lady makes a grab for the pizza and it’s briefly airborne in the scuffle. Trish is gone when you blink and back when you look again, electricity crackling on her skin. Dante shoots her a dirty look but she just smiles coyly and takes a bite of stolen pizza. “Eventful,” she says. “But you could’ve guessed that, I’m sure.”

You forget what she is sometimes and the sight of that raw, demonic power gives rise to some deeply ingrained fight-or-flight instinct, but it also fills you with awe. You’ve admired Trish since you first laid eyes on her. She’s got that confidence and cavalier attitude all the Devil May Cry hunters do, undaunted by any challenge. You’ve seen her come streaking across the sky like a falling star and slice a three-story tall demon in half, static flicking through her hair like something alive.

“Well, hey, just make yourself at home and eat the rest of my food!” Dante calls, watching disapprovingly as the last of the leftover pizza disappears. Lady’s brought a deck of cards with her and she’s spreading them out on the desk between them. Dante makes her roll up her sleeves and empty her pockets but you see her pull a card out of the waistband of her shorts when he’s not looking. Your gaze lingers for just a moment too long and Dante looks over like he can feel it, finds your eyes across the room and winks. You feel like a teenager, suddenly overheated and starstruck.

“Well,” Trish says, and you turn around and see she’s smirking, “that’s the other reason I asked.”

You smile nervously, glancing back at Dante once before you lean in and whisper, “Hey, on a scale of one to ten, how obvious is it?”

She tosses her head back in laughter. “That scale’s not gonna cut it. I thought Dante was the least subtle person I knew until you turned up on his doorstep.”

“Oh.”

(Another time—long, agonizing, the most drawn out loss you’ve ever suffered. You couldn’t break his guard while he was standing so you threw him off balance and flung yourself at him before he could stabilize, and you both went rolling across the hardwood floor. Maybe it was one of your worse plans because Dante was never going to lose a contest of strength against you, but you felt like you had to try.

Rebellion was lodged in the wall and your sword had been knocked across the room earlier, and this was nothing but pure, animalistic struggling, all clawing and writhing and raw strength. You’d get the upper hand for a few breaths and then he’d land a punch and you’d be curling back, arms in front to protect yourself, and you’d be rolling again, under him in a matter of seconds and doing anything to get back on top. It was over fast but every moment seemed to take forever. You were running out of breath and you hurt all over, bruised in places you didn’t know you had, and you kept thinking, _one more second one more second one more second,_ trying to keep him down just that much longer.

Dante ended up on top in the end. His hand was on your throat, squeezing, and you blame it on the adrenaline, the mess of sensation, every one of your nerves alive and on fire, but you _moaned._ And he didn’t back off right away this time, not even when the heat of the moment began to ebb away and your head was clearing and you were hyperaware of the erection straining in his pants and nestled against your thigh.

You both caught your breath and he was a mess, hair hanging in his face and a pearl of sweat sliding down the hollow of his throat. He looked at you with eyes a color you hadn’t seen before, something blue but _not,_ tinged with a frightening light that wasn’t not reflecting off of anything but coming from inside of him, and he squeezed again.

“Dante,” you croaked, his name trapped under his fingers.

There was no delicate, graceful way to disengage after everything that had happened, so he just let you go. He lifted his weight off of you and his knuckles brushed against your cheek. This time, he offered a hand to help you up and you took it wordlessly, not looking each other in the eye.

“Sorry,” he said. “That crossed the line.”

“It was fine,” you said, and he looked at you like you’d done something dangerous.

No pizza again. He pretended to flip through the same magazines that had been piled on his desk for weeks and at least one was upside down. You excused yourself for the day as quietly as possible. He was giving you that look again. You felt it on your back the whole way out the door.)

There’s a lull in your conversation; no real silence because silence isn’t possible between the TV and the jukebox and Dante slamming his fist on the desk when he loses another round and Lady pockets another wad of cash. Trish glances at you, then at a spot over your shoulder and back again, and you must really be as subtle as a firestorm because she lowers her voice and asks, “You haven’t told him?”

You smile bitterly and steal another glance. You really _are_ obvious. At least Dante’s too distracted with his game to notice and you take in the details of his face scrunched up in focus. He’s ruggedly handsome but he doesn’t look weary the way some hunters do, every year etched on his face softened by joy that never seems to leave his eyes. That was the first thing you noticed about him the day you came here and asked him to train you—Dante is happy. He can find a silver lining in any cloudy sky and puddle of mud, and that’s a skill you’ve tried to pick up as eagerly as devil hunting.

You tell Trish, “I can look him in the eye while he’s got me pinned on the floor with Rebellion at my throat, because I trust him. I know he’d never really hurt me. But the second it’s got something to do with a touch any gentler than that, I freeze up.”  Something in the air is making you uncharacteristically honest and open tonight, and you ask her, “How are you so brave all the time?”

Trish claps a hand on your shoulder and squeezes reassuringly. “I’ve been afraid before,” she admits. “It helps to remember you’re not alone. This isn’t just a business, you know. It’s a family. We take care of each other the best we can.” She gestures with a nod towards Lady, tidying up the stack of magazines on Dante’s desk. It takes you another moment to track down Dante; he comes down the creaking steps with an armful of blankets and drapes one over Nero, who’s sprawled asleep across the arm of the couch.

“Just like old times,” he sighs wistfully, reaching over to turn off the TV. “Kid’s always working himself too hard.”

“What a softie,” Trish teases him. She nudges you with her elbow and speaks in a mock-whisper, “You know, he got all choked up when Nero said he was moving back to Fortuna.”

Dante shoots her a warning look and she just smiles knowingly.

“Well, it’s been nice,” Lady says, Kalina Ann slung over one shoulder, “but I’ve got a long drive back and a job tomorrow bright and early.” She gives you a one-armed half hug as she heads for the door. “Keep him out of trouble, alright?”

You laugh and say you’ll try. Dante ushers both grinning hunters out the door and lets out a long-suffering sigh. The jukebox is put out of its misery and the only sounds left are footsteps on the aging floorboards and Nero’s soft snoring. “That was fun,” you say quietly. “Thanks for having me over.”

Dante shrugs, but you see a little happy tug at the corner of his lips. “Thanks for coming. Lady’s been on me about having you come around more often, since,” he pauses, smile faltering, “you’ll probably be going on hunts with us soon.”

“Do you not want that?”

He flicks off the lights and plunges the room into darkness. Your eyes adjust slowly, taking in the shape of him outlined in the pale orange of streetlamps through the window. “No. It’ll be nice,” he says, but it takes longer than you’d like for him to answer. “You’ve got guts, you know that? You took to it like a duck to water. I’ve got a lot of faith in you.”

His footsteps cross the room and you’re startled at the weight of his hand on your shoulder. Dante’s close and you can smell him, leather and gunpowder, can feel the warmth of his palm through your sleeve. He’s closer and you were like this the other day when you sat on the couch with barely anything between you, your hands clutched into nervous fists at your sides.

You’re the first to pull away, reluctantly. Dante’s hand doesn’t leave fast enough and slides down your arm, catches your wrist, his fingers slipping past yours one at a time. You make yourself look him in the eye. “I’ll be back tomorrow for my final exam,” you tell him. “I’m gonna win, and we’re gonna talk.”

Dante just nods. There’s a healthy distance between you and it does fuck all for the heat building in your body, coiled between your legs. He’s looking when you grab your jacket off the coat rack and when you fumble with the zipper and when you shoulder through the doors, until the final moment when he can’t see you anymore.

You have to fucking win tomorrow.

*

You don’t win tomorrow.

Dante is close enough to kiss and smells faintly of body wash on top of the musk, sweat and blood. His mouth gets closer, brushes right past your lips, grazes your cheek, and bumps against your ear so lightly you could believe it was an accident if you were still in denial. “Close, but not quite,” he purrs. He gives a slow roll of his hips that makes you let out a shaky breath as your eyes flutter shut.

*

Nero watches you pick yourself up off the pavement for the fifth time this afternoon like you’re a stubborn bird that keeps throwing itself at the same unflinching window. He’s got Dante’s adrenaline junkie streak and it was easy to talk him into a quick spar, but each successive round has gotten a bit of pushback, a bit more, “Are you _sure?”_ from him, and now he’s pulling his punches. He’s not unscathed or anything, and you’re proud to say that your win-loss ratio was split pretty evenly there for a while. Nero was impressed for the first three rounds but his enthusiasm died at maybe the tenth or eleventh.

“Alright, we’re taking a break,” he says, plopping down on the cement beside you and offering a bottled water. You take it with a hoarse sound of gratitude. Nero’s watching your hands shake as you struggle to twist off the cap. “Don’t take this the wrong way, but I don’t know how you haven’t beaten Dante yet. You kicked my ass a few times, so you must be giving him a run for his money at least, right?”

You shake your head. “I dunno. I’ve been close a few times, I guess.”

“How’s he getting you?”

How _isn’t_ he? You count off on your fingers, “He’s just faster. I slip up once, blink at the wrong second, and I’m fucked. He throws Rebellion around like it’s made of styrofoam. Guns are pointless, he just shoots my bullets out of the air and he’s on me while I’m still shaking off the recoil. Disarming him went okay for a little bit but he just waited for me to tire out and it was over. I don’t want him to go easy on me or anything but it’s starting to feel like…”

Nero smiles wryly. “Like he’s playing with you, right? Sure sounds like it.” He rests his chin against the faintly glowing palm of his Devil Bringer. “But there’s gotta be a reason. Maybe you’re doing something he doesn’t like?”

That’d be news to you. You massage away a pounding headache and take another long gulp of water, sifting through your memories. Of course you can identify every misstep in hindsight, but you’ve figured it out as you go. You don’t do the same thing twice. You’ve learned how to avoid the first strike, to counterattack, to dodge in a way that doesn’t leave you open, and you get better every time, but there’s always some bullshit that gets you at the last second.

And now that you’re thinking about it, it’s not always something new, either, just a few recognizable maneuvers that he pulls out at a crucial moment. So maybe it’s all about endurance, but what are you supposed to do about that? You’re wheezing by the time he’s just starting to sweat.

“Shit,” you mutter. You’re getting frustrated just thinking about it so you get to your feet, setting the water bottle aside. “Alright, let’s go again.”

“You’re way too worn out to get anything out of this anymore,” Nero warns, but he knows you and knows how stubborn you are, so he’s getting up and reaching for Red Queen’s handle.

“It’s fine,” you mutter. “I’m always at a disadvantage with him anyway.”

You imagine you’re in the shop, in the musty backroom. Dante curls his hand and beckons you forward, taunting you, smirking because he knows exactly how this is going to end. But not today. Not this time. You start slow this time and you’re circling each other like lions, hands on your swords, eyes burning.

(A memory—the first time you walk in the shop, see him at his desk, and your heart skips a beat.)

You’ll be doing this all day if you don’t move first, so you move carefully. You close the circle, draw your sword, and Rebellion comes at you with the force of a hurricane. Blocking’s risky so you dodge, roll under his strike and come up swinging, but he’s spinning away and maintaining his distance. He’s going to tire you out and come in for the kill when you’re struggling to stay on your feet, and you’re not going to lose again, so you come to him.

(A memory—target practice with Amator. His heat at your back, his hand around yours. He absorbs the shock of the recoil and keeps you steady.)

A fist cracks across your cheek and you stumble out of arm’s reach, steading yourself against a brick wall. It breaks the illusion because Dante doesn’t fight you bare-handed unless he has no other choice, and Nero’s smirking and flexing the fingers of his Devil Bringer. “You getting distracted over there?” he calls. He’s good at keeping you motivated; you want to punch him the fucking face so bad right now.

(A memory—a late night, a demon attack, bad weather. You’re still shaking when Dante peers through the curtains and tells you to stay the night. You come out of the bathroom and he’s got himself draped across the couch with a magazine over his face.

He flicks a hand towards the stairs and says, “Better take the bed, kid,” despite your protests. You come back down to tell him he left Ebony and Ivory on the bedside table, and he just nods. He tells you it used to help him sleep better knowing they were there. You caress the engraved metal with your fingertips and think of questions you want to ask him, but you never do, eternally waiting for some magical “next time” where you have the confidence to say everything that’s on your mind.)

Red Queen crashes into the concrete where you’d been standing seconds before and Nero catches your strike with his Devil Bringer. It’s over, you know it is the second those cold, spectral fingers close around you and slam you into the sidewalk. He spits a mouthful of blood out on the ground and rubs his black eye. You roll onto your back and stare at the gathering clouds. “We done yet?” Nero asks hopefully.

“Yeah,” you say. You rest your arm across your face because you feel a little like crying and don’t know why.

You hear Nero’s footsteps and then he’s sitting next to you again, pouring what’s left in the water bottle over his head to wash off the sheen of sweat all over his skin. “You think you might be scared to win?” he asks.

You glance at him. “Why would I be scared?”

“I know it was loud in there, but you were only on the other side of the couch.”

“I’m—” You stop yourself, trying not to sound so defensive because it’s just making his grin wider. “I’m not, okay? I’m a little nervous, I guess, but I just wanna be done with this.”

“Fair enough.” He gets to his feet with a grunt and you follow, limping after him back towards the shop.

Dante looks amused at the sight of you both dragging in like the living dead. “You kids have fun out there?” You roll your eyes and start limping towards the bathroom. “Hey, I mean it. What’s the point otherwise?”

Nero nudges you with his elbow and you almost trip and fall. “That’s a hint,” he hisses, and you’d look at him like he was crazy if it doesn’t hit you at the same moment.

(A memory—nightmares. Dante’s up at three in the morning making hot chocolate when you come down the stairs and shoves it into your hands as soon as you’re in arm’s reach. He leans over the kitchen counter and tells you a story about going on a hunt with Nero and stumbling into a nest of harmless demons that sounded like cats and looked like roaming balls of cotton, how one of them snuck back to the shop stuck to the back of his coat. When he finally gets a laugh out of you, he snaps his fingers and says, “That, right there! You gotta keep that, kid. People without a sense of humor don’t last in this business. If you’re staring death in the face, have fun with it.”

“That sounds reckless,” you say, but he shakes his head.

“I’m telling you to relax.” He reaches across the table and takes your hand in his, turning it over, studying the back. There are little, faint scars there, pale marks that have healed over the last few weeks. “Regular people don’t get into the devil hunting business. I’m not gonna ask you what happened, because that’s your business. So let me tell you something I’ve learned from experience.” He looks you in the eye and you’ve never seen him quite so serious. “You don’t have to forget anything. Pain’s valuable and it tells you where you’ve been, but it’s only gonna take you so far. On the other side, you’ve gotta find something to laugh about.” He squeezes gently.

You don’t have a hand free to cover your face when you start tearing up, and maybe that’s the point. He holds on the whole time and keeps telling you stories of all the gentle things he can remember. It feels weird to laugh and cry at the same time, but it’s not so bad.)

“Tomorrow,” you tell him, halfway up the stairs. “We’re doing it again tomorrow.”

Dante looks up. Holds your gaze. Licks his lips. Says, “Looking forward to it.”

*

He rubs his thumb along your split lip with a fog of undisguised lust in his eyes. “Kid,” he says, “I’m starting to feel a little bad.”

“Don’t,” you snap, slapping his hand away. “It won’t mean anything if you go easy on me.”

He shoves you back down with a hand on your shoulder and lets out a low, rumbling growl, and you think, just maybe, it’s the hottest noise you’ve heard him make. “You’d better win tomorrow,” he says huskily.

You shift, a slow, teasing roll of your hips against him. “I thought you said it’s dangerous to get impatient on a hunt.”

He laughs and leans in and you can’t believe how close this all is to the surface now, how neither of you are pretending anymore. He grinds down on you, runs a hand across your chest, and his teeth graze the shell of your ear. “Dangerous for _you._ If the demon you’re hunting gets impatient,” you feel his lips curl into a smirk when he bites down, “you might get eaten alive.”

*

The sun’s just creeping over the city's jagged skyline when you walk into Devil May Cry. Dante’s waiting at his desk and welcomes you in with a somber nod, leading you to the backroom in silence. You stretch, roll your shoulders, tighten your shoelaces. Dante leans against the wall with his arms crossed over his chest and pretends to be half-asleep but you feel his eyes on you, following the curve of your body. Flexing your fingers, you grasp the handle of your sword and walk to the far end of the room, and Dante pushes off of the wall.

“This is the end of your training. Final exam,” he says, like he’s said every day in recent memory. Rebellion travels in a sweeping arc from the sheath on his back and flashes in the low light of early morning. “If you win this fight, you pass. You can start hunting the second you walk out of here.” He watches you with desire in his eyes as you wind up, brandishing your sword and taking a deep breath. _“Go.”_

This time, he moves first, and you almost lose right then and there. Rebellion comes straight for you and you feel it stir up a breeze in the empty space you were just standing in. Dante’s never on the offensive at the start but today he’s putting on the pressure and rapidly closing the gap between you. Your heel hits the wall at the back of the room and you _panic,_ trying to slip away before he reaches you but Rebellion’s broad body slams you back against the wall.

You hear Dante’s voice echoing in your head, every bit of advice he’s ever given you, every kind word and reassurance. _It’s fine,_ you tell yourself, _it’s fine, relax, have fun with it._ His hand goes for your throat and you swat it away, push yourself off the wall and throw yourself against him. It’s enough to send him stumbling and then you’re both falling but he twists, flips back, sends you sprawling, and lands on his feet.

You laugh. You’ve been here a thousand times. Just once, Dante cracks a smile and then Rebellion’s coming straight for you. You roll onto your feet and the dance starts again, but something’s different this time, something’s coursing through your veins and you’re keeping pace with him, parrying his strikes instead of hiding from them. Rebellion bounces back and you use every precious second to turn the tables and get him on the defensive, and you’re there, you’re _there,_ you knock Rebellion out of his hand, his back hits the wall, one-two steps and you’ve got him and _then_ —

A burst of light and hellfire shatters the windows and sends you stumbling, shielding your eyes. Something hits you hard and you skid back across the floor before you come to a sudden, violent stop. There’s a crushing weight smothering your body, dagger-like claws gripping your throat. You’re staring into the molten eyes of the demon inside of Dante, his obsidian carapace hot and pulsing everywhere it touches you. His wings are stretched open wide on either side of him and something like fire glows hot in his chest, light seeping through the thin membranes and dips in his armor-like skin. He holds one clawed finger at your pulse and feels your heart racing. You’re too shocked to speak.

There’s a flash and it’s all gone, folded away beneath human skin again. Dante looks down at you with traces of red light fading from his eyes as they cool to their familiar blue, and you swallow hard.

“You fucking asshole,” you mutter. “You don’t want me to win, do you?”

Dante blinks slowly. He looks dazed, like you’ve woken him from sleepwalking. “Kid, I—”

“Get off of me.” You shove him when he doesn’t move, biting your quivering lip because you don’t want to cry over this in front of him. You feel Dante’s eyes on you and for once you wish he’d stop looking. “So, what, we can mess around like this but we can’t talk about it? Is it not fun anymore if we do that?”

“Kid—”

“Stop _calling_ me that.”

So he says your name instead. You look over at him, startled. You don’t know that he’s called you that since you introduced yourself months ago. Dante says it again, pronouncing it carefully, gently. “I didn’t mean to do that,” he admits. “It just happened. You were doing great and I was excited for you, excited for _us,_ and all of the sudden, I just.” He stops himself, puts his hands up in a helpless gesture. “Well. You saw.”

“What—what’re you trying to say?”

Dante smiles and helps you to your feet. You wobble a little and his arm ends up around your waist, pulling you closer. You’re covered in scrapes and bruises and you probably reek of sweat but Dante is looking at you like you’re doing something sexy. “I’m saying I wanted you so bad, I devil triggered,” he murmurs, his fingers hooking beneath your chin and tilting your gaze higher, a little higher, until you’re looking each other in the eye and he’s leaning in and your eyes shut as you think, _Fucking finally._

You don’t know if it’s something left over from his demon half or a musk of exertion and you don’t really care, but Dante tastes like something spicy, something with heat, something earthy with a subtle bite to it. Ash and sugar. Tobacco. Heated cinnamon. His lips are soft and his stubble is coarse and he kisses with an overwhelming hunger, a hand raking through your hair while he tangles his tongue with yours. You grip the lapels of his coat and you’re pressed chest to chest, unbearably hot and drowning in him. You don’t ever want to stop but you can barely breathe and Dante pulls back to watch you gasp for air, your lips swollen and glistening with your combined saliva.

“We should’ve done this forever ago,” you say.

Dante laughs and slides his hand along your side in a slow, sensual caress. This is actually happening. You’re still in shock. “You weren’t ready, and I wasn’t gonna push you,” he says. You make a needy sound when he presses a chaste kiss against the corner of your mouth, teasing. “Shoulda seen yourself. You came alive tonight. Got this fire in your eyes, and it’s still burning.” His hands are wandering, feeling you up, slipping under your shirt and dancing across your bare skin. Dante knows what he’s doing and you’re melting against his careful touch, back arching, gasping into his quick, nipping kisses. You shiver at the warmth of his breath at your ear when he whispers, “I think you wanted to ask me something.”

“Fuck me,” the words just spill out of you, overeager, desperate to be heard. Your only warning is a playful smile and then your feet leave the ground. Dante lifts you easily, urges you to wrap your legs around his waist. He rocks his hips so you can feel how hard he is and you’re so turned on you’re getting dizzy, clinging to him with shaking hands and begging him not to tease you anymore.

“Sorry, babe,” he says. Your face heats up at the new nickname and the fondness in his voice. “We’re gonna take it slow, alright? I’ve wanted to do this for a long time but I’m not gonna rush now.”

“Not too slow, I hope,” you chide him, and he laughs.

Dante’s bedroom is a mess as always with torn and bloodied clothes left abandoned wherever he peeled them off on his way to the shower. There’s a stale smell, and you think you knock an empty pizza box over on your way into the room, but your attention’s on the man who drops you on the bed and swoops in to kiss you while he starts tugging off his clothes. Your hands are shaking and he notices, taking one and pressing his lips to the back. “Relax,” he says softly, “I’m not going anywhere.” He guides you the way he did when you were holding his old gun, helping you get your jacket unzipped and your shirt off over your head. His hands are on you before you have a chance to feel self-conscious, traveling the expanse of your chest and tracing the natural hills and valleys of your body with his fingertips. Your breath hitches when he teases one of your nipples with his thumb and then he’s kissing the same spot, swirling his tongue around the nub until it’s stiff and hardened.

“Dante, let me—” you choke on the words when his hand slides between your legs. It’s rough and callused from years of demon hunting. He’s not gentle, not treating you like you’re made of glass, but there’s warmth and wanting in his touch, eagerness to hold you.

“You don’t have to do anything,” he says.

“What if I want to?” The adrenaline from the fight has morphed into an invigorating heat that makes you bold, makes you lick your lips, wrapping your legs around his waist and rolling both of you so you’re on top. You run your hands down his chest and feel every muscle flex and relax under your touch. Dante’s body is a broad canvas of snaking scar tissue, jagged claw-like lines and pockmarks of scabbed-over bullet wounds, partially erased by his demon half but lingering faintly in fragments and traces. Your eyes flick up to his face, gauging his reaction, and you get an encouraging smile.

“Then be my guest,” he says huskily, rocking his hips under you. You move down his body, straddling his legs, and then you hesitate.

You’ve thought about this. You’ve fantasized, if you’re being honest, had some vivid dreams about him fucking you into this very mattress, so of course you’ve wondered about his dick. All of those dirty daydreams have been augmented by the brief, flirtatious moments when you fight and feel the twitching outline of his erection through both of your clothes, but you can say with certainty that it all pales in comparison to the real thing.

He’s _big._ Veiny and long with a nice curve and a wide, flared head, and it’s got to be a demon thing.

Dante’s watching your face with a growing smirk and you’re not sure anyone in the world has ever looked so poised, so confident, so very _smug_ while reclining naked with somebody’s eyes roaming their body. “You look surprised. Should I be offended?” he asks, bucking his hips. The gesture is so much more obscene now that you can see every inch of him. “Go ahead, get a good look. Really take it in.”

 _“Dante,”_ you say, pained. You should’ve known you wouldn’t get out of here without hearing some stupid quips. There’s no point in getting embarrassed now but you’re almost shy when you wrap your hand around his base and feel him pulsing against your palm. You’re nervous all over again because Dante’s huge and he’s had his fair share of lovers and what if you do something stupid or can’t make it good for him?

The next thing you feel is his warm fingers closing around your hand. “Hey. Relax,” he says softly. He doesn’t ask if you’ve done this before. When he starts guiding you, urging you to stroke him from his base to his blushing tip, you don’t feel like he’s judging you or making any assumptions, just easing your nerves. “Just like that,” he says, grunting when you slide your thumb along his leaking slit experimentally. “Mm, you got it. Fast learner.”

And you like that, you like the praise and the way he lets his eyes fall shut, lightly bucking his hips against your hand. You’d like seeing a stronger reaction, too, so you sink down while he’s not looking and replace your hand with your mouth. Dante’s clutching your head in an instant, a firm, insistent pressure that stops you from getting anything more than his tip in your mouth.

 _“Kid,”_ he snaps, but his expression softens at your wounded look. “Shit, you can’t just—go slow, okay? Pace yourself.”

You suckle at his tip and give him an incredulous when he throws his head back and moans. “Why? I always thought you’d have more stamina than that.” You swirl your tongue around him and feel him give a slow, shallow thrust into your mouth. The next time you glance up at his face, you see the fire of his demon half faintly glowing in his eyes like smothered embers.

“I’m gonna remember you said that,” he murmurs, and a shiver goes down your spine. Dante’s fingers card through your hair and it feels nice having his blunt nails massage your scalp while you suck him off. You get a little too eager and feel his tip bump the back of your throat, pulling off with a wince. “You don’t have to,” he reminds you, a half-formed thought cut off when you try again, slower this time, sliding your tongue along his length while you bob your head.

Dante’s breathing grows labored and you feel accomplished when the cords of muscle in his arms and thighs start tensing, hips thrusting up into your mouth at a carefully controlled pace. A constant stream of praise trickles past his lips, soft moans and encouragement, “That’s good, that’s really good, right there, babe, you’re amazing,” and you swell with pride. You look up at him with disappointment when the hand on your head pushes you back. “Your turn,” he says, and suddenly you’re getting shoved down on your back while he positions himself between your legs.

And then everything stops. Dante’s looming over you, a hand spread flat beside your head, and you can feel his eyes raking your body, taking in the sight of you trembling under him. “Come on, don’t stare,” you say, laughing weakly.

He smiles. “Sorry. Just enjoying the moment.” His fingers just _graze_ your aching sex and you make a sharp, wounded noise. Dante looks far too pleased with himself, his smile gaining a mischievous edge. “Somebody’s real sensitive,” he murmurs, the heel of his palm pressing against your sensitive flesh and making you writhe under him. It doesn’t take long for you to start bucking your hips, shamelessly humping his hand while he works you with his fingers. Dante brings you right to the edge with nothing but his hand, all the while panting and moaning against your ear and telling you how sexy you are, how perfect, how badly he wants to fuck you.

“Dante,” you moan his name and he makes this appreciative rumbling sound low in his throat, “I’m—I c-can’t—”

“You close?” he asks. His teeth pull playfully at your earlobe. “Good. Don’t hold back. I wanna see you cum.” He twists his wrist, sets a faster pace, and you forget to breathe for just a minute. Your orgasm hits and your back arches off the bed with a long, whining moan. Dante’s hand digging into your hip feels like the only thing keeping you from floating away and he doesn’t stop until you stop grinding against him for that last bit of satisfaction, doesn’t pull away until you’re lying spent under him and becoming aware of the sticky dampness between your legs. A tender kiss pulls you out of your thoughts. You hear a chuckle and a warm hand presses to your forehead. “Still with me?”

“Mn. Yeah.” You let out a pleased sigh and let yourself melt into the bed, but your reprieve is short-lived. Your only warning is a sharp smile and then Dante’s mouth is on you, lapping up your juices with a long lick across your sex. You tremble and slap a hand over your mouth to cover the horribly embarrassing noises you’re making, and that makes him pull away.

“No, babe, I wanna hear you,” he murmurs. When he goes down on you again, he definitely hears you. You’re still hypersensitive from your orgasm and the pleasure is so strong and sharp it almost hurts. Dante’s tongue swirls around you and the unabashed slurping sounds he’s making are driving you crazy. You’re crying his name and trying to buck your hips against his face, but he’s holding them down with a firm hand on each. You barely register that one of his hands leaves until you feel one of his fingers prodding and teasing your entrance.

Dante pulls off of you when you stiffen in surprise. “Can I?” he asks. His finger circles the sensitive spot but stops short of penetrating you. He’s waiting for permission and the sight of him with his face flushed and your cum shining slick on his lips makes makes a shiver run down your spine.

“Please,” you say, embarrassed by how breathless and needy you sound. Dante smiles and kisses your stomach on his way back down between your legs. The wet heat of his mouth closes around you and you’re writhing under him, your thighs quivering around his head. His tongue swirls around your sex and he makes a low groan that you feel all the way to your core. _“God,_ Dante—” Whatever you wanted to say devolves into a long moan when he hums around you.

Dante’s looking at you, peering up your body with half-lidded eyes as the finger circling your entrance wriggles inside. You squirm a bit at the initial intrusion but his tongue more than makes up for the uncomfortable pressure, slurping and sucking on you while he slowly stretches you open. He’s going slow, pumping his finger in and out at a steady pace until he works it in to the knuckle, and you can tell he’s looking for something, prodding around gently. The hand on your hip tugs gently, urging you to scoot closer and raise your hips, and you shakily do as he asks to give him better access.

That’s when he finds it. The tip of his finger presses against a spot inside of you that has you convulsing, both hands tangling in his hair. You’re rough on accident, pulling, nails scraping his scalp, but Dante rewards you for it with more attention from his tongue. You just came but you don’t think you’re going to last, and you try to tell him but all that comes out is a wounded cry because he hits that same spot _again_ , dead on, and you can’t do anything but grind against his face and his hand and ride out the wave of pleasure that crashes into you. You think you hear yourself screaming his name but you aren’t sure of anything until you come back down again, dizzy and drenched in sweat.

Dante kisses you and you taste yourself on his tongue, your own cum smeared across your lips when you separate. The second finger goes in easier than the first and you’re nearly delirious with overstimulation. Everywhere he touches you is hot and tingling, the lightest caress of your hip making you tremble.

“You look _wrecked,”_ he purrs, chuckling at the way your hips chase his hand. “Should we stop? I don’t know if you can take me.”

You’re about as quick and coordinated as a sloth right now but the panic that surges through you when he starts to pull away is enough to get you moving. You loop one of your legs around him, digging your heel into his shoulder to pull him closer. “Don’t you fucking _dare_ . I already waited too long for this, Dante. Stop teasing and fuck me.” You’re almost surprised at yourself, how your voice stops wavering and your tone hardens, suddenly possessed by an assertiveness you’ve never been able to master before. Dante’s beaming. He’s _proud_ of you, you realize.

“Whatever you say, babe.” He settles between your legs with a fist around his erection, giving himself a few long strokes while he lines up with your entrance. A little excited shiver runs through you at him taking you like this, face to face, letting you watch his brows furrow and his lips part in a silent gasp when he starts to push inside. You go rigid, legs wrapped tightly around his waist. It’s burning, two fingers wasn’t nearly enough to prepare for it, but you don’t want to stop now. Dante whispers praise and reassurances, tells you to relax, tells you he’ll go slow, and you breathe shakily when he gives a shallow thrust, easing in a little deeper. “You okay?” he grunts. You whimper and he stops, goes totally still with his hands on either side of your head. “Talk to me. Does it hurt?”

“I-I’m fine.” At his disbelieving look, you move against him, rolling your hips and shuddering at how deep he is already. “F-fuck, you’re big.”

“I know,” he says, and miraculously doesn’t sound smug for once. He looks worried. “Shit, I didn’t wanna rush this.”

“Dante, it’s fine.” The rippling aftershocks of overstimulation have left you with the arm strength of a wet noodle but you manage to reach up and cup his face in your hands. Dante hunches over you, presses his forehead to yours, and you both take a moment to breathe. You’ve never seen him so red-faced and shaky. You know he’s holding back for your sake and you’re almost tearing up at the thought that you matter so much. “It’s fine,” you say it again, softly. “I’m fine. Maybe we rushed a little, but I don’t wanna wait anymore.”

“Next time,” he says, sinking in deeper, easing past your tight walls clamping down on him, “fuck, next time, we’re going slow. Okay? You’re not gonna talk me out of it.” Your heart swells at the promise of a “next time.” Dante thrusts in deeper and the ache is starting to feel good, satisfying somehow. You look down at where your bodies meet and watch another veiny inch slide in, every muscle in his abdomen clenching with exertion as he stops himself from pounding into you. “We’re, ngh, gonna have rose petals on the bed. And scented lotion. And— _goddamn you’re tight,_  candles or some shit, I dunno. We’ll take our time, alright?”

“Okay,” you agree, laughing. You didn’t know you’d be smiling so much during sex. Dante angles his hips and the next thrust has your pelvis meeting his, hips joined, the soft sound of flesh smacking together making you realize he’s really, fully inside. Dante relishes the moment with you in silence for a couple breaths before withdrawing to the tip, and then he thrusts back in with a single motion that has you keening. He angles his hips and the next one grazes that spot again, the vague tingle at the base of your spine suddenly bursting in a rush of pleasure, and you throw your head back with a long moan. “Dante, I-I’m,” you cling to him, arms wrapped around his neck, “fuck, I’m already close.”

Dante chuckles, starting up a faster rhythm. You can feel his cock pulsing when it pumps into you, prodding against that same spot and making your nails rake down his back. “Mmm. Then cum.”

“I don’t wanna cum yet, I don’t want you to stop.”

Dante shifts his weight and suddenly you’re being smothered into the mattress. You whimper when he nips at your ear, catching the lobe between his teeth and applying the lightest, playful pressure. “I’ll stop when you ask me to,” he murmurs. His cock slams into you and he grinds his hips, pushing insistently against your pleasure spot. You almost cum right then and there but you hold out with a whimper. “If you don’t ask me to, I won’t. So you can cum.” A hard, punishing thrust drives you into the mattress, and then another, and Dante speaks in a low, growling rumble between them. “You can cum _again_ and _again_ and _again,_ and I won’t stop. I’ll fuck you till you forget your name if you let me, babe. We’ll go as long as you want.” He slams into you again and your toes curl, your eyes rolling back in your head, and all it takes is his lips brushing your neck for you to go tumbling over the edge.

You cry Dante’s name over and over and he fucks you through it. The first thing you hear after your ears stop ringing is the slap of flesh meeting flesh, your bodies joining, his balls smacking your thighs. You hear a bestial grunt as Dante’s cock twitches, and you gasp when you feel a burst of cum with every thrust. It froths up around his length and comes trickling out of your sore hole, gathering in a damp spot under you. Dante’s thrusts slow and grow shallower. He’s unwrapping your legs from around him only to bend you nearly in half, hooking your ankles over his shoulders. You see stars when he rolls his hips, pinned under him and completely at his mercy.

“Y-you just came,” you say hoarsely.

“Mhm.” Dante kisses your cheek and grinds down on you in a circular motion. He pushes into you, sinks in to the hilt, and you couldn’t hold back your voice if you wanted to anymore. “Hey, babe, what’s that you said about stamina earlier?”

“Shut up,” you moan. It’s the last thing you say to each other for a while. You tell him everything you’ve ever wanted to with your body and he speaks back; he holds you, buries his face in the crook of your neck, and your name tumbles from his lips with the weight and sincerity of something precious.

*

There’s pizza for dinner, of course.

After a hot shower, you crash back into bed and stare at the ceiling. Dante’s footsteps move across the shop and then come back up the creaking steps, and he shoulders through the door with the box on his arm. The stench of sex has started to leave the room with the sheets tumbling in the washing machine down the hall. You thought Dante might not be one for cuddling but you get the feeling he’s anxious by the way he sets the box down on the bed and then sits down with a respectful distance between you.

“So,” he says, “you know there’s another bedroom across the hall? Not that you couldn’t sleep here, but, y’know. Figured you’d like having your own space.

“Dante,” you say tiredly, “just ask me to move in.”

He smiles. “Alright. You wanna move in?”

You smile back. “Nope. Too early. Still haven’t passed my final exam.”

His crestfallen expression shifts to one of confusion and he settles into the empty space beside you.  “What? You passed.”

“I didn’t, because _somebody_ devil triggered at the last second.” Dante rolls his eyes but you cut him off before he can argue, “You think I wanna get certified knowing I had to sleep with my teacher to do it? I’m gonna win next time. Don’t hold back.”

Dante laughs and it’s new somehow, a loud, unrestrained sound that bounces off of the walls. “Kid,” he says, looking a touch sympathetic as he slings an arm over your shoulder, “you didn’t sleep with me to get certified. You’re a badass, I feel sorry for whatever poor sack of shit crosses your path on the job. And for the record, that was my bad. You would’ve had it if I didn’t lose control like that.”

“Still.”

“Still,” he nods, “I see what you’re saying. We’ll go again tomorrow morning.”

You reach across the bed for more pizza and a sharp pain shoots up from your pelvis. “Uh. Maybe the day after tomorrow?”

Dante massages your hip with an expression that isn’t quite sorry enough for the deep, dull ache you feel every time you move. “Whenever. There’s no rush.”

There really isn’t, and you feel like some massive weight’s been lifted from your shoulders. Dante rubs little circles into your thigh with his thumb while you eat and starts telling you a story about how many times Lady shot him within the first hour of knowing him. You listen with a feeling of camaraderie, a sense of belonging. You came to Devil May Cry saddled with a persistent unease, a deep sorrow and an emptiness that you believed would never really go away, but they feel so small compared to you now, insignificant in the face of your newfound strength. This cluttered little mess of a bedroom smells faintly of sweat and metal, you’re sore in places you didn’t know you had, and there’s pizza grease all over your hands. You feel like you’ve been on the road for a long, long time.

Dante rests his hand over yours and you feel like you’ve finally come home.


End file.
